


Work to Rule

by chaosmanor



Category: Genghis Khan - Miike Snow (Music Video)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Contracts, Exhibitionism, F/M, Labor Unions, M/M, Polyamory, Restraints, Unconventional Families, Voyeurism, industrial action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: I know there's no formAnd no labels to put onTo this thing we keep(First verse "Genghis Khan" by Miike Snow)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eleanor_lavish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/gifts).



The canon material for this fic is a four minute long, glorious song + vid by Miike Snow. Here it is! *points down* 

* * *

Be a small business owner, my parents said. Set your own hours, work to your own rules. In theory a good idea, and in practice a quagmire of paperwork and labour hassles. How big today's hassles were first began to dawn on me when my personal Henchman, Davie, tossed my trenchcoat on to his desk, rather than hanging it tidily. 

"Boss," Davie said. "You're wanted in Payroll."

I was halfway down the corridor to Accounts and Payroll before I realised that Davie had his Miscellaneous Enforcers' Union ticket clipped over the top of his official lair pass card and ID.

Beverley and Sinclair, the Henches who ran Engineering and Provisioning, wheeled a gurney of really very exciting gear past me toward the main lab, and their Union tickets were also clipped to the front of their coveralls. 

I ran to Payroll. 

Gerry handles my financials. What she can do with currency exchange and asset transfer is astonishing. She also handles the financial operations of the lair, keeping the invoices paid. 

Gerry was hunched over her desk, ledgers, punch card records, and printouts strewn across the desk and spilling down onto the floor. Beside Gerry, laptop open and red pen poised, was Evil Ken, most feared representative from the Miscellaneous Enforcers' Union. Evil Ken was so cunning and slippery, he should have moved out of Henching and into Villainy a long time ago. Then at least I'd be allowed to shoot him with poison darts or electrocute him. 

"June 17th," Evil Ken said. "Employee number 27. Punch card records say they worked 13 hours. How many hours were they paid?"

Gerry flicked through a ledger. "Eight and a half, as per their employment contract."

"Good morning Gerry, Evil Ken," I said. "How's the routine check going?"

"Boss," Gerry said, and damn, but even Gerry had her union ticket clipped to her tie today.

Evil Ken glared at me. "Not routine," he said. "I'm investigating alarming allegations of overtime non-payment."

"I'll be in the lab," I said to Gerry. "If you need me."

"This isn't going to go away!" Evil Ken said to my back.

I could kill Evil Ken. I could kill him a lot. It was possible his replacement wouldn't be quite so tenacious and nasty. It was also possible my lair would then become an entirely freelance workplace, though, and as tedious as it was dealing with union hires, the thought of handling dozens of subcontractors with mercenary allegiances in an ongoing operation was worse. 

 

The lab was tidy and calm. The science boffins were working with Beverley and Sinclair, installing the new ultra-laser over the examination table. I could smell the faintly acrid whiff of solder and hot transistors coming from the open back of the modulator bank. 

Security officers, a full contingent in lovely crisp uniforms standing at crisp attention, lined the observation deck. 

I ran my fingertip along the examination table, and the metal top squeaked with cleanliness. One of the science team rushed in behind me, carefully wiping the surface clean again. 

This was good. 

"Are we ready for this morning's project to be delivered?" I asked my teams. 

"Yes, Boss," the team leaders called out, and Ciara from Science wheeled my table of tools across, under a sterile drape. 

"The special examination pack?" I asked Ciara. She nodded and ducked back to join the team working on the ultra-laser. 

11am. I resisted the urge to go to the Receiving Dock and see the delivery arrive. Don't be too eager. Let the heavy lifting team do their thing. This was not the time to throw my back out. 

Minutes ticked past. Science and Engineering and Provisioning attached the access panels to the ultra-laser, and the lab hummed with the faint crackle of power as Beverley connected the power supplies.

I could hear, muffled by long tunnels, the bustle of activity and the squeak of the delivery trolley. 

Seven minutes to get the delivery from the dock to the lab? Had there been an issue? Was the package damaged during delivery?

Stay calm. 

My hand moved involuntarily, so I turned the gesture into a check on my tools. Flask of frozen CO2. Pliers. Cutting blades. Specimen collection tubes. Betadine solution.

Betadine solution? 

"Why is there Betadine on the tray?" I asked. "It needs to be Chlorhexidine!"

The scurry to correct the tray happened behind my back, as I turned to watch the delivery being wheeled down into the lab. 

The Goods Receiving team lifted the delivery on to the table and strapped him in. I inspected him.

Oh, but my British Spy was pretty, squirming against the restraints, his blue eyes flitting from the ultra-laser above him, to me, to the Security team. 

I checked him over, running my fingers under his restraints to check they weren't digging in, and smoothed down the cuffs of his tuxedo shirt. He was terribly over-dressed for the occasion, but the British always were, at least in our trade. 

"Cuff links," I said, making a tching noise. "That's against the rules."

My Spy flinched and cringed when I lifted up the short nosed pliers from the tray and ran my fingers over the handles. 

I worked the pliers in around the back of the cufflink studs. "I do hope these aren't exploding cuffs."

The cuffs snipped off, tumbling to the floor. "Don't worry, " I told Spy. "I was prepared for this." 

On the tray beside the sutures and butterfly clips, a plastic sleeve held a set of black satin knots. I slid a knot into the cuff of each of Spy's sleeves, settling the fabric smoothly and smiled reassuringly at him. 

"Not at all disarranged, see?"

A scuff of crepe-soled shoes on the cement floor made me turn and look. Gerry was watching from the observation deck.

"Don't go anywhere," I told Spy, and I went to speak with Gerry.

 

In Gerry's office, Evil Ken was eating cheese and onion sandwiches, and he had red ink smeared down his shirt. Or blood? No, red ink.

"Yes?" I said, straightening my tunic. 

"About the irregularities," Evil Ken said. "Gerry has calculated the back payments you owe your staff for unpaid overtime, accrued unused leave, and danger allowances, particularly for handling explosive materials. According to the enterprise agreement that your lair operates under, until these back payments are resolved, the Miscellaneous Enforcers' Union ticket holders on the premises are on Work To Rule conditions."

Evil Ken packed away his sandwich and wiped his hands on his shirt. 

"Ms. Geraldine here will update me daily on the status of the payments, and I'll be liaising with the union delegates on your staff with regard to a full stoppage of labour in the event of an unsatisfactory outcome of this action."

When Evil Ken had stomped out of the office, I asked Gerry, "How much?"

"You could liquidate the Shropshire estate holdings," Gerry said. "That would cover it."

Not the Shropshire estate.

"Or sell the Degas?" Gerry added.

"Sell the painting," I said. "No one lives on a painting."

Gerry nodded, and I think she approved.

 

Back in the lab, my beautiful Spy lay on the table, like a feast on a sideboard. As I moved around, his gaze tracked me, watching me consult with Beverley and Sinclair on the ultra-laser modifications, then run through the calibration protocols. 

I gave him water to drink through a straw, every hour. By the middle of the afternoon, he was drinking greedily, long gulps of the cool water. I watched his throat move as he swallowed, and used my thumb to wipe away the water that trickled from his lips when I lifted the straw.

"I need to…" my beautiful spy whispered, when I offered him water an hour later.

"I'll get a medic," I said. 

The duty medical officer for that day was Natalia, a looming mountain of muscle who had started her career as a power lifter for a former Eastern European bloc country, before moving into sports medicine, and then eventually joining my operation as part of my Extractions and Collections team. I appreciated having someone who could both punch through solid walls and staunch haemorrhages. 

Natalia strolled into the lab, pulling on latex gloves. "Yes, Boss? Had another unfortunate experimental incident?"

I adjusted my nose shield. "Our guest needs to use the facilities," I said. "Could you assist him?"

Natalia grinned and snapped her gloves around her wrists. "A different kind of spillage."

Spy squeaked. 

 

The change of shift alert over the PA system at 5pm came partway through a full test of the ultra-laser. 

"I have to go," I told Spy, as Beverly and Sinclair powered down the cyclotron, leaving the lab eerily quiet without the hum of the power banks. "The night shift will look after you."

I swear that his eyes pleaded with me not to leave him.

* * *

 

I opened the front door at home and my daughter rushed to meet me, arms held out for a hug.

"Hello Princess," I said, scooping her up. "Did you have a good time at day care?"

"Daddy! Daddy!" she said, wrapped around my neck.

"Daddy! Daddy!" my son called, tugging on my other arm as I tried to hang my umbrella on the hat stand. 

"Hello, Prince," I said, getting an arm around him too. 

I carried both of them into the kitchen, where Vixen was spooning something that smelled delicious onto plates.

"All of you, go and wash your hands," Vixen said, shooing us out of the kitchen. 

I put the two children down and they ran off to the bathroom. 

"You too," Vixen said. "Go and wash up."

I kissed her cheek anyway, right where a cooking smudge was stuck.

At the table, while the children chattered about macaroni art and naptime, I told Vixen about labour issues at the lair.

"Until Gerry resolves the outstanding amounts, everyone is working to rule," I said.

"I glued macaroni," Prince said, and Vixen and I both nodded approvingly. 

"Did you make a pattern?" I asked him.

"I made a cat," Princess said. 

"An actual cat? Or an image of a cat?" Vixen asked her. 

"A picture," Princess said. "Duh."

"Manners," Vixen and I said in unison.

"Did you know that Gerry's children go to the day care at my work?" Vixen asked me.

"I know," I said. "Gerry always has to leave early to collect them."

"You could provide childcare facilities on the premises," Vixen suggested, not for the first time.

"At the moment, I can barely provide the premises and keep them staffed," I said. 

Vixen shrugged. "I do. It's possible to have generous staff facilities and still run an efficient acquisitions and extractions business."

"I had a nap today," Prince announced. "I don't like beans."

"Good, and you still have to eat them," I said to him. "We don't all own anarcho-syndicalist communes where the staff collectively operate the crèche."

"I don't like beans either," Princess said. 

"Firstly, it's not possible to own an anarcho-syndicalist commune, and you know it, so stop being silly. Secondly, if you improved your workers' conditions, it would be easier to keep the workers, and their productivity would improve. Thirdly, beans are an important part of our diet, and anyone who doesn't eat theirs has to have nutritional supplement shakes."

Both of the children immediately began to eat their beans. I did as well. Mummy's protein shakes were deeply experimental and sometimes glowed. 

"But," I said, and Vixen glowered at me across the table. 

"Enough work talk," Vixen said. "More macaroni art, less economic theory. Two of the people here are too young to have to listen to Keynesian theory. Again."

* * *

In bed that night, Vixen straddled me.

"Tell me about him," she said, rocking forward so her breasts swung. "Tell me."

"He's on the table, in restraints," I said, thrusting my hips up to meet her movements. "He's so pretty, in his dress shirt and bow tie."

"What are you going to do to him?" Vixen asked. A blush was creeping across her chest and up her neck, and she was sweating as she ground herself harder and harder on my cock. "Are you going to burn his clothes off with your laser? Are you going to make him beg?"

"Yes!" I said, grabbing the fleshy folds over Vixen's hips and pushing up into the sweaty, grinding heat of her cunt. "I'm going to strip him off and fuck him over the table!"

She screamed, magnificent and wild, and we thrashed together, smashing the bed head against the wall as we came. 

* * *

I left Vixen asleep, and went back to the lab. I couldn't bear to think of my beautiful British Spy suffering on that hard metal table for the whole night. 

The night security staff at the lair were where they should be, watching Spy.

I took the main table control switch from the security officer and walked over to Spy.

"Should I let you go?" I asked Spy. "Do you think you could make it past the guards?"

"Please," Spy said. "Please free me."

I ran a fingertip down the crisp cotton of his dress shirt, and I could almost feel the fine forearm hairs through the fabric. 

'click'

Spy's restraints were undone. I was undone. I turned my back and walked away, signalling to my security team to stand down. 

Moments passed, I glanced over, and my beautiful British Spy was coming towards me, hope in his eyes. 

I took him to my office and locked the door. I fucked him, and he fucked me, across my desk and against my filing cabinet, until my desk light was smashed and every paper from my in tray was strewn on the carpet.

* * *

Tuesday night, when I came home from work, my beautiful British Spy was cooking dinner in the kitchen. Princess and Prince ran to meet me at the door. "Daddy! Daddy! Look who's here! It's our other Daddy!"

"It is too," I said, scooping up both of the children and carrying them in to the kitchen. 

"Go and wash your hands, all of you," Spy said.

I put both of the children down, and they ran off. I leaned across to kiss his cheek. "What's for dinner?"

"Go and wash," he said. "It's a surprise."

At the table, while the children chattered about finger painting and nursery rhymes, I told Spy about my own work.

"Gerry has found a buyer for the Degas," I said. "So, once that is settled, I can resolve my outstanding liabilities."

Spy nodded. "Then your labour issues will be over? And you will pay overtime correctly going forward?"

"I painted a cat," Prince announced. "Not an actual cat, a pictorial representation of a cat. Also, I don't like these things."

I looked at his plate, where he had isolated pieces of kidney from the pie.

"It's meat," I said. "Excellent source of protein. Much better than a powder added to a smoothie."

"It's weird meat," Princess said. "Spongy."

"That makes it easy to chew," Spy said. "Had you thought of having a stronger engagement with your workforce? A two-way conversation? Give them some buy-in to your productivity?"

"A crèche?" I asked.

Spy grinned. "Maybe? Your Henchpeople may well want crèche facilities. It's more likely they want to go home at a reasonable time most days and to not wear uniforms that itch."

I stared at Spy, while Prince and Princess made a performance out of eating kidney. 

"They don't like the itchy uniforms?" I asked. "But I made them that way?"

"Based on what I could overhear," Spy said. "I think you have some staff dissatisfaction issues. I can look into things, while I'm here."

 

That night, while I sucked Spy's dick, he stroked my hair.

"Is she watching?" Spy asked. "From her Lair?"

"Hmmmhmm," I said. 

"Fuck that's hot."

It was hot. All I could think of, while Spy fucked me through the mattress, was Vixen watching us, touching herself, getting off over and over.

* * *

Inside the bathroom cabinet was the calendar and rules. Spy and I checked them over on Wednesday morning, while I brushed my teeth and fitted my golden nose guard. Next scheduled change over was Friday, when I was due to travel to the Shropshire estate for four days of quiet time by myself, while Vixen and Spy were together, presumably working on my staffing problems. Then, the following Wednesday, Vixen was going to abduct me and take me to her Lair for some quality torture, while Spy had the children. Then, Spy was back to the Shropshire estate, and Vixen and I were at home. 

We all knew where we were and what we were doing, and worked to the rules.

END


End file.
